


The day the world went away

by MMXIII



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Murder Husbands, Psychopaths In Love, Serious Injuries, Whump, criminal boyfriends, mormor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-31
Updated: 2013-07-31
Packaged: 2017-12-22 00:24:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/906724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MMXIII/pseuds/MMXIII
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sebastian's dying on the back seat<br/>Jim's not so sure about 'procedure' any more</p>
            </blockquote>





	The day the world went away

Sebastian’s sat in the back, where the leather is covered in custom-made plastic casing to minimize the damage to the fine Italian upholstery. He’s got his head tipped back obscenely, exposing the grimy sweat pooling in his suprasternal notch. Shuddering with each forced inhalation, one hand listlessly grips the edge of the seat, blood squelching out from under the splayed knuckles. The other is pressed to his lower left abdomen.  
He stopped trying to talk about 7 minutes ago.

James is driving, [James never drives], sweating violently through his crisp white Armani shirt. He’s rolled up the sleeves and loosened the collar; it’ll be ruined, but not as ruined as the accompanying jacket which he gave Sebastian to stem the bleeding. Years from now, when he remembers this day, he'll think about all the times he's screamed at Sebastian for touching his chiaroscuro tailoring and realise [jarringly] why this was different. Hands white on the wheel [toes white on the pedals] Jim glances backwards skittishly every 13 seconds; this is as close as its ever been because Sebastian [fucking twat] has been walking around all day 'shaking it off' before collapsing gracelessly in a stairwell in East London.

Jim brakes viciously and the effort involved in holding himself still burns like Catholic guilt in Sebastian's shredded stomach muscles. He lurches forwards, forced to put his hand on the side of James' seat to steady himself. Gripping the Champagne-coloured leather he shouldn't be touching he watches the viscous blood trickle over his wrist and slide along his shaking forearm. 

'fuck'

‘Moran?’  
Jim’s eyes flick up to the mirror feverishly as he simultaneously navigates a roundabout with 3 lanes.  
There’s a grotesque sliding crackle as the plastic crinkles and buckles followed by a definitive thud.  
‘MORAN?!’  
Sebastian’s sprawled inelegantly across the seats on his back gasping for air, legs crumpled awkwardly against the passenger door, eyes red rimmed and sunken, lids flickering like a butterfly in an upturned cup.  
‘shitshitshitSHITSHIT’  
Jim jack-knifes out of the traffic, there’s no way they’re gonna make it now, he’s been counting the oozing pints.  
Hurtling down a backstreet, he finds one of the many cctv blind spots this side of town.  
He has to do it now.

Engine barely off he’s tearing out of the driver’s seat and wrenching open both passenger doors. Sebastian gasps obscenely as the cold April air hits his fever-jacked skin. Jim eases him out of the car, legs first. Sebastian’s so gone his feet don’t register the contact with chipped alleyway gravel. Jim groans, he’s going to have to lift him out - though Sebastian is [Russian prison] lean, he’s all muscle and bone, and right now he’s heavy and all over the shop.  
James is unnervingly careful with Sebastian’s head, cradling it with one arm [like a human organ in transit] over the spine-bruising bottom lip of the door.

Jim holds his shoulders up off the ground and presses his gun to a rare soft spot just under Sebastian's ear, where jugular and jaw collide.  
Sebastian's eyes flicker to meet Jim's as safety clicks off, he's always known this was on the cards, he's ready  
Their foreheads almost touch as Sebastian breathes brokenly down Jim's collar, flecks of bloody spit stick to the fine cotton and bleed out like ink in blotting paper.  
'not usually so... so efficient,... James' he breathes, throwing out one last lop-sided grin from hell.  
They say you can only see a man as he really is when you're pressing death to his throat; Sebastian's cobalt eyes remain [self-destructively] steady

Jim only stares for a moment, pupils blown so very [dangerously] wide

Plan A is a lost cause,  
[Sebastian doesn't hear the harsh rattle of a gun glancing of an old chain-link fence 20 feet away]

Plan B is considerably riskier

Jim splays Sebastian out over the broken tarmac on his back like a hit-and-run and pulls on his gloves.  
[He's watched Sebastian do this countless times] The filthy leather jacket he cuts off with the evil end of a butterfly knife, emptying the pockets [they can't find anything] and slipping the £800 corpse under that stupid lovely blonde head.  
The devil's impromptu paramedic turns his attention to the cause of 11 days of brutal septicemia. Sebastian’s hands have fallen away from the gaping stab wound in his black crewneck; both are upturned, red iron rusting in the breeze, pulse sliding deliriously from Piccadilly Circus to Hampstead Heath. He looks like a ruined saint, which makes Jim laugh just a little bit nervously.  
He peels Sebastian’s sticky shirt up with his wrist  
Presses his dying Armani jacket down with his forearm  
And duct-tapes the balled-up fabric to Sebastian’s stomach

Seb groans, an unhealthy sounds that tails off into a wheeze

'Why d'you always smoke so fucking much!?' Jim snarls, wincing when his voice cracks.

Jim wants to hold the blood in with his own hands but he can’t, he'll just have to lick it off his fingers later. He calls an ambulance for the first time in his life, easily mimicking Sebastian's voice in freefall. A mugging, simple, no awkward questions despite the lack of DNA.

Sebastian stirs, blood bubbling in his throat just before he violently jerks sideways and vomits onto his shoulder. Jim gives him that look, the noquestionsmorancan'tyoubemoreprofessional scowl, so Seb plays ball even whilst semi-conscious, [he's so beautiful sometimes...] ‘Sunday...’ he slurs before his eyes roll back into his head.  
‘Sunday...’ Jim repeats, they have so many code words...he knows this one, but its old... ‘...Sundays are for knife fights…’  
Of course! Jim forgets hospital is for ordinary people who don't line their clothes with folded steel He takes 40 seconds to pat down Sebastian’s jeans; two flick knives and a lethal looking straight razor [classy, daddy approves]  
Moran's favourite shotgun, the one with the stupid yellow smiley face sticker on it, is strapped to his lower right leg,

He'll be furious [Jim smiles]

Sebastian fucking hates waking up without a gun

Scattered around Jim's 'live in one' are ring of skeleton keys  
A [rusty] switchblade,  
An effeminate phone number on an [expensive] napkin,  
£20.83 & $3.89 [mixed together, fucking heathen],  
An antique silver-plated lighter,  
A hideous black Nokia, indestructible, the type that only plays distorted Vivaldi

Jim throws it all in the glove compartment with Sebastian’s killing paraphernalia and turns to remove those lovely bone-crunching steel-capped boots. Each one is lined with hellfire, they have to go 

145 seconds til showtime and Jim leans over his right-hand man, nuzzles the side of his dirty face, listens to his shallow, uneven breathing. He reaches back over the titanium pins in Sebastian's shoulder, the scars, the adrenaline & dopamine laced tattoos, and presses down on his frankly hilarious attempt at first aid; Sebastian growls weakly, and Jim is unspeakably thrilled; Sebastian’s gonna live to be annoyed about this.

'Pick you up next week, honey’ he sings over his shoulder and the sound of encroaching sirens as he slams all the doors and slides into the driver’s side. He doesn't flip on the stereo as he slithers away, instead, he thinks about how Sebastian looks holding a gun, right arm extended in a gloriously violent right angle to his steel-wrapped spine, left arm back, reaching for the blade tucked into the back of his jeans like he's still 17.  
His hands would be perfectly still, His blonde hair would be sweaty, curling at the nape of his neck

Their particular brand of defiant solidarity has always been palpable

'fuck', Jim says to the dashboard, much more softly than he intended

Every so often, he dies of boredom and Sebastian carries him home

**Author's Note:**

> Kind of a work in progress - comments much appreciated ^^
> 
> * The day the world went away is a killer nine inch nails song


End file.
